


nights are so long

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Music, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: What’sgoingto happen is going to happen, and the shift has already occurred. Because of this moment, everything has already changed.or: sarge comes back after the war. nocturnes, ladders, and handsome piano teachers abound.





	nights are so long

**Author's Note:**

> eventually i'll explore this ship within canon, but that makes me sad so instead y'all can just take au's where they're happy.

_a man walks down the street  
it’s a street in a strange world_

 

* * *

 

It’s a craving he has, music. Fingers that itch to strum a guitar or play a piano. Since coming home from the war, moving into his little one bedroom in the city, working nine to five, there isn’t much time for music. Isn’t much time for anything other than surviving at all.

But it’s a rare day, one he has off, and one that belongs to him. He walks, treats himself to a late breakfast, relishing the pepper that coats the tops of his eggs, sunnyside up for the first time in ages. He asks for more toast, slathers it with jam and takes a piece with him after he pays, licking butter from his fingers and sliding a hand in his pocket. Keys ring bright like bells, like _music_ , and he smiles.

He’s going to buy a guitar today.

He’s in a part of town he doesn’t know too well, so he asks around. Does anyone know where you might get something used? Maybe a couple records while he’s at it.

“Armonia,” they keep saying. “You want Armonia.”

Two blocks east, just a few windows down on the right side of the street. Door’s always open, music’s always playing.

“Thanks,” he says, and heads that way.

He finds the shop the way they said he would, with one small addition — a man, standing on a ladder, hanging lights. He’s clearly not practiced at anything like this at all, because he’s got the ladder all pulled out the wrong way, perched on uneven ground.

Sarge comes up to it, puts his hands on it to steady it, and calls up, “You need some help?”

“I’m sorry?” The voice is English, and incredibly unaware.

“With your ladder. You’re gonna fall off.”

“Oh. Oh! Did I not do it right? I’m terrible about this sort of thing.” He abandons his task, letting the lights tumble down as he comes back to the ground. “Is it not set out right?”

“Uh, no.” Sarge has to swallow to get around his words. The guy might be dumb about ladders, but he sure is easy on the eyes. “It’s, uh, too close. And you picked a terrible spot.” He points at the ground, where the two pieces of cement that make the sidewalk have started to come apart. “I can help you out,” he offers.

“That’d be splendid, actually. I’m just trying to hang those lights in the window. We’re open in the evening and it seems people don’t really know, so I thought I’d brighten things up.” He steps back as Sarge fixes the ladder and puts it on more even footing. “Did you stop ‘round to help random strangers or were you looking for something?”

“A guitar,” Sarge says. “Used. Don’t have much cash on me.”

“Well, I’m certain something can be arranged. Do you work?”

For some reason the question _bristles._ Sarge doesn’t answer, just finishes hanging the man’s lights before descending the ladder.

“It needs to be pulled out all the way, or you’ll kill yourself. And maybe I don’t need a guitar, maybe I just needed to take a damn _walk_ —”

“Please,” the man says firmly. “I meant no offense. I only meant if you _needed_ work, I have plenty that can be done around here.” He watches Sarge fold the ladder. “You served, I assume?”

“I did.”

“I appreciate your service. I’m not from the States, as you can probably tell, but it’s my home. You deserve better than what you got.” He sighs and extends a hand. “I’m Doyle,” he says.

They shake.

“Sarge.”

Doyle smiles. “It’s good to meet you. Why don’t you come inside, let’s see what we can set you up with.”

 

* * *

 

It isn’t new, the guitar he goes home with that day, but it’s his. He sits on the balcony of his apartment and strums, trying to pick chords from his memories. Maybe he can ask Doyle for a book, he’d probably loan him a few. Sarge closes his eyes and enjoys the push of the strings against the pads of his fingers, the soft echo of song that rolls through him.

_Laugh with me, buddy. Jest with me, buddy. Don’t let her get the best of me, buddy._

_Don’t ever let me start feelin’ lonely._

 

* * *

 

“How are you enjoying the factory?” Doyle asks one afternoon. Sarge is in on his day off, doing some repairs here and there.

“Pays the bills,” Sarge says, snipping a spare wire from one of the overhead light’s he’s fixing. “Prefer to do things like this.”

“Fixing things?”

“Sort of. Fixing something different, really. Last few years, seems all I do is what other folks tell me to.” He comes down the ladder and wipes his brow with a handkerchief. “Be nice to be my own boss, you know.”

Doyle considers this for a moment, then nods. “You’re right, it _is_ nice to be your own boss. You should start your own business.”

Sarge huffs. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not joking, I’m serious! You’d do well, especially around here. We need a reliable handyman. I could get you referrals, you could work out of the backroom here, the spare office isn’t being used.”

Sarge raises a brow. “I’m not lookin’ for charity.”

“Oh, come off it.” Doyle leans back against the counter. “It isn’t _charity._ You could pay rent if you’d like, though I wouldn’t insist on it. I’m serious, you shouldn’t have to come home from _war_ and place _widgets_. It’s ridiculous.” He inspects his nails. “You’re worth more than that.”

The sentiment is harrowing. Sarge doesn’t quite know what to do with it, so he sets about cleaning up after himself, folding the ladder and putting it away. When he comes back, Doyle’s gotten out some glasses and poured him a cup of water.

“Every time we meet, I seem to offend you. I’m afraid I might lose the pleasure of your company entirely before the month is out.”

“S’not you,” Sarge says. “I’m…”

_Rough around the edges. The way I’ve always been._

“If you don’t want to do it, I’d understand. But you seem...happy, when you’re doing this. Fixing things. Making them better.”

Sarge closes his toolbox and looks over. Doyle’s watching him carefully, and the idea lingers between them.

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

Doyle smiles. “I _certainly_ hope you will.”

 

* * *

 

He sits in bed, eyeing the guitar propped in the corner of his room, scowling at it.

“Stupid,” he mutters, and turns out the light.

He can’t quit his _job._ He can’t just...start a business. He can’t. He _can’t._

Can he?

 

* * *

 

He’s standing outside of the music shop just as Doyle is unlocking the door and says, a little _panicked_ , “I quit my job.”

Doyle just stares, and Sarge wonders if this, _this_ , was the worse of his two ideas —

And then the man throws his arms around him, and _laughs._ Full-bodied, voice lilting up and up and _up_ into the heavens — “I am so _proud_ of you,” he says, and grabs Sarge’s hands in his and pulls him into the shop. “I had very high hopes you _would_ , so I went ahead and did a quick clean up of the back office last night.” He pushes open the door and Sarge steps in. It _is_ tidier than it was before, with an uncluttered desk, a few supplies here and there.

“We’ll be partners,” Doyle says. “Business partners. We’ll get you a sign for the window, and when people call here they’ll be calling for you, too! Now, I have several people who I’ve told about you already—”

“You what?”

“Well, of course! I had complete confidence you would decide to do this, and you already have some jobs lined up for the week.” Doyle goes to the desk and picks up a planner. “I bought this some time ago, but now it’s absolutely yours. I’ve, ah, taken the liberty of filling in your upcoming appointments.”

Sarge looks at the planner. “This says I have a job in an hour.”

“Hm?” Doyle looks at it. “Oh! Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry—”

Sarge chuckles. “Nah, don’t worry. It’s, uh. It’s kind of you.” He gestures with the planner. “I appreciate it.”

Doyle’s mouth works for a moment, and then he grins. “Excellent! Well, I’ll leave you to it. Won’t bother you anymore. I’ve got a violin to tune anyhow.” He gives Sarge a careful pat on the shoulder and leaves him alone in the office.

Sarge listens as he walks down the hall, then moves to sit behind his desk. _Lacks character_ , he thinks, but he can fix that. He looks at his planner and figures he may as well get to started.

He quit his job. He took a chance. And even though, despite everything he’s been through, _this_ feels like the most terrifying thing he’s ever done, he has to admit —

He’s _excited._

 

* * *

 

“The whole thing kind of just—” The boy makes a _poofing_ motion with his hands. “And then it caught on fire.”

Sarge nods. “No worries, son.”

The boy kind of kicks at the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets while he looks on. Sarge glances over his shoulder and the kid steps back. “Um. Sorry.”

“S’alright. You wanna see how I fix it?”

His expression brightens. “Yes!”

They hunch together in front of the oven for about half an hour while Sarge messes with the wiring — stripped, exposed, dangerous, considering it’s an _oven._ The boy’s name is Michael, he says, in between the six hundred other things he says while Sarge grunts in acknowledgement.

“And what’s that?”

“Wire stripper.”

“But I thought they were already stripped.”

“New wires. Just the ends, gotta get ‘em in there.”

“Oh. Neat!” The boy can’t be older than fourteen, but he watches with a careful eye and Sarge can tell he’s learning something.

When the oven finally works, they both step back, and the boy toys with the settings, seeming pleased.

“You’re a real lifesaver,” he says. “Mom was getting stressed. Which...is no good.” They walk out of the kitchen together. The little bakery seems to be family run, and if Sarge knows anything, it’s their entire livelihood. A few of the boy’s older sisters work the counter, and when they come out, everyone seems relieved.

Mrs. Caboose tries to give him a handful of cash, but Sarge shakes his head. “Nah, this is my first job. Rather have folks talkin’ me up, if you understand my meaning.” He glances at Michael, who is putting his apron back on. “Actually, I’d love to teach your boy a few things, if that’s alright by you. Maybe he can follow me on a few jobs now and then.”

The boy and his mother are over the moon. Sarge leaves with a bag of bread, three bear claws, and a very large plastic cup of lemonade.

 

* * *

 

“A good haul then,” Doyle says later, as he watches Sarge set it all on the desk with a smile. “Maybe you should bring some of that bread over tonight.”

Sarge raises a brow. “What’s happenin’ tonight?”

“ _You_ are coming over for dinner. At my insistence.” He reaches into the bag and takes one of the bear claws. Sarge reaches up and grabs his wrist, gently, but all the same —

They’ve only known one another for a few weeks, but there has been a pressure building at the base of his skull, something egging him on. Doyle’s brow arches high as he unwinds himself from Sarge’s grip.

“It’s not an invitation,” he says. “It’s a request. When you’re finished for the day, you can just walk right upstairs.”

Sarge nods. “Seems easy.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Doyle unwinds himself from Sarge’s grasp and takes a bite of the bear claw. “Five o’clock. Don’t be too late.”

 

* * *

 

Sarge hasn’t been someone’s _guest_ in years. He shows up outside the door to the little apartment Doyle keeps above the music shop with a loaf of bread in one hand, and a hastily purchased Cab in the other, and oh he must be a _sight._ Doyle can’t stop laughing at him, ushering him inside and taking the gifts from him.

“You’re spectacular, do you know that?”

“I, uh—”

“Sit down, everything’s almost done.” He forces Sarge into a chair at the kitchen table before he starts slicing the bread, checking on whatever’s in the oven. “I haven’t had anyone up here in ages, it’s a relief to entertain. Terrible space for it.”

“It’s not so bad.”

Doyle glances over at him. “You are _exceedingly_ kind, considering how perpetually grumpy you seem to be.”

“I am not—”

“Oh, it’s a compliment, love. Really. We need all that to balance out all... _this_.” He gestures to himself. “Now, tell me about your first week. You met the Caboose’s this morning, did you like them?”

Sarge nods as a glass of wine is pushed into his hands. “Liked their boy a lot.”

“The only one,” Doyle says, pulling something out of the oven. “ _Several_ girls. And their father just passed last year, it’s all very sad. Maria keeps the place running as best she can, but she’s struggled without her husband. Emotionally. She’s a brilliant baker and a star business owner, but she just _misses_ the man. It’s heartbreaking.” He plates what looks like fish and vegetables and Sarge takes a sip of his wine.

“He seemed interested in what I was doing. Offered to teach him a few things.”

“Oh, they’ll appreciate that. Someone in the family needs a different trade.” Doyle sets the plates on the table. “Now. I haven’t cooked for someone else in a very long time, so I can’t speak to the quality—”

Sarge is already eating. Rude, most likely, but Doyle doesn’t seem to mind.

He never _really_ seems to mind anything Sarge does at all. He sits across from him, resting his chin in his hands and looking on with a certain...fondness.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

Doyle laughs. “Oh, _excellent._ Absolutely excellent.”

 

* * *

 

“Professor Doyle is really nice,” Caboose says one afternoon. The boy’s a born engineer, Sarge realizes, and it’s not the first time he’s thankful that the draft is done with, and Caboose was always too young in the first place.

Boy like him would be _wasted_ on war.

“Professor, huh? Because he teaches piano lessons?”

“Hm?” Caboose looks up from his work, furrowing his brow. “Oh, no. I mean, yes, he teaches piano lessons, but he used to teach at a very fancy music school.” Caboose sets down the bundle of wires in his hands. “That’s what my dad said.”

“Right.” Sarge inspects Caboose’s work, fixes a few things here and there. “Looks good, son. Hit the lights?”

Caboose nods and goes to flip the switch. He’s eager, which is good, and surprisingly resilient to electric shocks. Satisfied, they pack up and collect their payment before going outside to sit in the back of Sarge’s truck and have some lunch.

“Music college, you said.”

Caboose nods, wiping peanut butter from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Yep.” He licks it clean. “Professor Doyle is a really good musician. Dad said we were lucky to have him.”

Sarge nods. “You miss your old man, huh?”

“...Yeah.”

“Sorry to hear about him. Must be tough.”

“It is,” Caboose says. “But...mom’s tough. And the girls are tough.” He looks at his sandwich, considering something. “And I guess...I guess I’m tough, too.”

“Sure are.”

After lunch Caboose goes back to the bakery to finish there for the day, and Sarge heads back to the music shop to unload. He’s usually done a bit later, but his last job was rescheduled, so he takes the time to organize his truck before heading inside.

Doyle teaches lessons throughout the day, mostly to kids, a handful of adults. Most of the music Sarge hears is choppy, staccato notes. A child’s first attempt at being musical. Every so often someone with a bit more proficiency is there when Sarge gets back. Today, the music coming from the shop is slow and beautiful, almost sorrowful, if he thinks about it.

Of course it’s Doyle, he realizes. Of course. He’s only heard him play once, and now Caboose’s story makes more sense.

Doyle’s posture is perfect, as Sarge steps into the showroom and leans against the counter, watching him play. The arch in his fingers is stunning, it’s almost a magical thing. Sarge closes his eyes and lets the familiarity of the piece wash over him.

“You’re back!” Doyle suddenly stops and stands. He’d been just as panicked as the last time Sarge had caught him playing. “You’re, um. You’re early.”

“Vanessa rescheduled. Somethin’ came up.”

“Yes, of course.”

Sarge gestures toward the piano. “You can keep playin’.”

“Oh, no, no. I won’t make you listen to that noise.”

Sarge only nods. People do and say things for a lot of reasons. If Doyle doesn’t want to share his music, well that’s his business. Sure, Sarge is _desperate_ to hear it. And sure, he’s desperate to sit beside him, to lean into him as he plays, to feel the way the keys striking the inside of the instrument vibrate the floor underneath them.

“How’s Caboose?” Doyle asks.

“He’s fine.” Sarge could tell him about what he learned, but again. Some stories...they just belong to you for different reasons. Doyle doesn’t ask about the war, or who Sarge was before. He doesn’t ask about his family, even though Sarge has certainly thrown a few off-handed comments his way, in the last few weeks as he visited the apartment upstairs more frequently. As they’ve cooked and drank together, turning records over to listen to the other side again.

_My mother liked this song._

_My mother taught me to make this._

But Doyle doesn’t ask and Doyle doesn’t push.

Sarge kind of wishes he would.

 

* * *

 

The whole block comes together for the Fourth of July. Too many people in one place for Sarge to feel comfortable, and the constant _pop-pop_ of firecrackers sets his teeth on edge. Doyle asks if he’d rather go somewhere else, or if he’d just like to go home, but the whole city is celebrating and he won’t be able to escape it. He just shakes his head and drinks deeply from his cup.

Lots of folks are out, folks he still hasn’t met. Not properly, anyway. Doesn’t seem like the best time for introductions, though plenty of people seem to know him.

“I talk about you all the time,” Doyle says, and the words are _not_ supposed to rupture an entire chamber of Sarge’s heart, but they absolutely do.

He says that like it’s _nothing._ Like it’s _easy._ And even though Doyle has already moved on, Sarge is still staring, while blue and purple and gold sparks burst in the night sky above them. And even though that should rattle him, for now — it doesn’t. For now, he is grounded by the idea that, when he isn’t around, Doyle _talks_ about him.

Sarge chucks his cup into the trash and goes after him. After the man who has decided he is good enough to talk about, good enough to speak of, good enough to _think_ of.

When Doyle spots him, he looks worried, reaching out and putting a hand on Sarge’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Alright. Is everything—”

“Just.” Sarge grabs his hand and pulls him away from the party, toward the music shop. The showroom is dark, save for the flashes that illuminate the instruments each time a firework explodes in the sky behind them.

“For heaven’s _sake_ , what are you—” He stops as Sarge gently grabs his shirt and tugs his forward, and they are perilously close. What’s _going_ to happen is going to happen, and the shift has already occurred. Because of this moment, everything has already changed. Everything _had_ changed, as soon as Doyle turned to him, his face outlined in gold and red and said _I talk about you all the time._

Doyle breathes. “So,” he says. “Have you finally sorted it?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought it was going to take _months_ ,” he murmurs. “Perhaps even years.”

“I’m thick, I’m impossible, you’ve got no idea what you’re gettin’ into—”

“You are a _fixer._ Of all the things you could have chosen to do after everything, you’ve chosen to _fix._ That means something.” Doyle slips his hand into Sarge’s free one and squeezes it. “It means something to me.”

Sarge tips his head forward, touches his forehead to Doyle's and laughs. “I am a _mess_ ,” he says. “You don’t know the half of it—”

“Then show me. I want to know _all_ of it. I’m a mess, too. I’m such a mess, but if anything I want...I want to be your mess. And I’ll take on whatever you give me, I have two hands—” He reaches up and loosens Sarge’s grip on his shirt, and now he is holding both of them. “—and they can be yours, too.”

The sentiment _aches_. Sarge untangles their fingers and brings his hands up to Doyle’s face, drawing him closer. “Can I—”

“You kiss me right _now_ , you ridiculous oaf—”

Sarge kisses him. He kisses him and Doyle winds his arms around Sarge’s waist and holds him. He should be _terrified_. Firecrackers keep popping in the street and is more vulnerable now than he ever been, but this...this is _good._ This is fierce and liberating.

When they finally part, they are both trembling apart under one another’s hands.

Doyle reaches up, brushes the hair from Sarge’s forehead, and says quietly, “Would you like to lie down? You’re shaking, love.”

“So are you.”

Doyle laughs. “Well,” he says. “It’s been quite some time since someone handled me in such a way.”

 

* * *

 

Sarge can fix almost anything — but he can’t fix a piano.

Now _Doyle._ Doyle can _hear_ what’s wrong with an instrument, moment you play it. Sarge likes to watch him diagnose a violin, pry out a bad string and replace it with quick, clever fingers.

“You are objectifying my _art_ ,” Doyle says.

Sarge chuckles. “Just admiring your, ah. _Craftsmanship._ ”

“That’s terrible innuendo, love. Do try harder next time.” He sets down his tools and leans back, away from his desk. “I’m exhausted. Should we order in? I wouldn’t say no to a decent bowl of noodles.”

And just like that — they ease further into one another’s lives.

It is shockingly easy, and like most everything Doyle does to him, it should terrify, but Sarge suddenly feels more at home than he ever has. It is unspoken, a few months in, that he not renew the lease on his apartment in the city, as his things have slowly been migrating to the little flat above the shop anyway. When Sarge moves his boxes of records from the back of his truck to the shelves upstairs, Doyle files them alongside his own.

“It’s like we’re getting _married_ ,” he says, and Sarge just shrugs.

After that, they learn a lot about one another. Where they each grew up, what they wanted to be when they were young.

“I always wanted to be a musician,” Doyle says. “My father was one, he insisted I train.”

Sarge still wants to ask about the music school. He wants to know why Doyle won’t play for him. He wants to know so much, but Doyle still doesn’t ask about the war, and if it takes a secret to keep a secret, then alright. He can live with that.

 

* * *

 

He falls off a ladder in the winter, just a week after Christmas. Caboose runs inside and calls for an ambulance and rides with him to the hospital. He’s a brave kid, Sarge thinks.

_I am so glad you were never a soldier._

“...You sound like mom.”

Damn. Did he say that out loud?

“Yes,” Caboose says, and takes his hand.

 

* * *

 

There’s nothing broken — a hairline fracture in his shoulder blade, a messed up elbow. Doyle fusses, and Sarge doesn’t really have the heart to say he’s been through worse. The man _knows_ that. Sarge won’t insult him.

But being cooped up reminds him a lot of the last time he was in the hospital before he came home. Busted leg and knee, burns on his back. Doyle has seen the scars that smart when the weather changes, that Sarge can’t stand to have touched.

“I’ll leave you be today,” he says. “Everyone knows you’re out of commission for a few weeks, so don’t you worry.” Doyle kisses his forehead. “Get some rest.”

Sarge nods as he goes, but he hates being cooped up. He could _work_ on things, but it’s not his best idea. He putters around the apartment, listens to records, tries and fails to play his guitar. He can at least cook, so he works on something for lunch, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling _caged_. He decides to bring some down to Doyle, and as he is descending the stairs, he hears it again —

Doyle’s music. His own playing. It’s been _months_ since the last time he heard it, and now he can listen without interruption. Sarge leans against the wall and closes his eyes. What _is_ this piece? Where has he heard it? Doesn’t he know it?

The music stops.

“Please come out,” Doyle says quietly. Sarge comes around the corner, sets their lunch on the counter Doyle sighs, still hunched over at the bench. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Thought you’d be hungry.”

Doyle nods, pressing his hands flat on the counter top.

“They played that in the hospital,” Sarge says, the memory coming back to him. “After...after everything.” Doyle looks up. “Not all the time, but...sometimes.” Sarge reaches out, takes one of Doyle’s hands in his. “You don’t ever have to explain every part of your life to me. Wouldn’t expect you to. But if you’ve got two hands, then so do I.”

Doyle looks shaken. Like he didn’t think the road went both ways. Like he didn’t _expect_ any of this.

He says: “I had a breakdown. I taught music in London and I...oh, it was terrible. I was miserable every single day. I was expected to produce perfect students, write perfect music, _be_ a perfect pianist and I just wasn’t. Every mistake I made counted against me and my father was so _ill_ , you see. And he knew. He knew I wasn’t what he wanted me to be.

“He died disappointed. Ashamed of what I was. A pitiful musician, a man who couldn’t handle the pressure. He died and it is _shameful_ to even think it, but...I felt _free._ ” He runs a hand through his hair. “I quite after that. I had no one else, so I left. Moved here. But I couldn’t play for anyone anymore. I could barely play for myself. That piece is one of Chopin’s _Nocturnes._ It’s all I can do, you see.”

Sarge reaches out and cups the back of Doyle’s neck. “You could have told me that.”

“You and I could say a lot of things to one another,” Doyle says. “But we don’t.” He pulls away, but only so he can go around the counter and rest his head on Sarge’s chest. “I love you. Is that alright to say?”

Sarge nods, holding him close and kissing the top of his head. “Sure is. I love you, too.”

“Well that’s quite a relief,” Doyle murmurs. He pulls back and sighs. “I’ll play for you more, if you’d like. I can’t...I’m not _ready_ to...it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just—”

Sarge silences him with a kiss. “Don’t explain yourself to me. I don’t need it. I just need to know that you and me are okay. That we can keep working.”

“Of course we can, darling.” Doyle looks up at him and smiles. “Of _course_ we can.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw  
> title and top lyrics from "you can call me al" by paul simon  
> sarge plays "buddy" by willie nelson on the guitar


End file.
